


The Unexpected Scenario

by One_annoying_bird



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/One_annoying_bird/pseuds/One_annoying_bird
Summary: After a rough night of patrol, Dick stumbles back into his apartment bleeding from a gunshot wound with only himself to take care of it.Or so he thinks.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845703
Comments: 24
Kudos: 617
Collections: All My Bookmarks, Dick & Jason, Dick & Tim, everybody loves dick





	The Unexpected Scenario

**Author's Note:**

> For Batman Bingo 2020 "Scars" This is my authors choice! Just to get it kick started because this is a new AO3 account so I don't believe many people will be sending in prompts without any proof that I can actually write XD
> 
> **Warnings: Blood, gunshot wounds.**
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not a medical worker. Any medical discrepancies in this fic are purely because I just wanted to have some hurt/comfort. If you're shot, just go to the doctor. If you're a doctor, please don't judge my lack of medical knowledge too harshly. I am but a humble fanfiction author <3

Dick stumbles into his apartment later than what he planned.  _ Normally _ , on a  _ normal _ night, he'd leave to patrol around ten pm and return home around two in the morning, giving him just enough time to brush over the worst of Blüdhaven and a few other spots—because honestly, all of Blüdhaven is just the  _ worst _ —and get back to bed in time to acquire a totally healthy amount of sleep of five hours before work. 

But tonight, the clock on his microwave is saying 6:00. Which really means it's about 4:30ish because he can't be bothered to fix it… but that's not the point. 

The point is, he's been out later than what he's planned, his body is aching, there's singe marks all over his suit thanks to the warehouse fire he's just had to fight his way through, and he's currently clutching his shoulder to staunch the flow of blood thanks to a bullet-wound. 

With it being so late in the morning, Alfred is most likely asleep so it's not like Dick can just call him up and ask for  _ how-to-dig-a-9mm-bullet-from-your-own-shoulder _ tips and tricks. He'll have to just do it himself with his own book of knowledge he's acquired by being a solo vigilante for the past decade. It's not like he's always had Alfred to fall on, and there's no Leslie Thompkins in Blüdhaven. He knows how to do it. 

Just not how to do it  _ good _ . 

After climbing through his window with the insides of his cheeks between his teeth in an attempt to ignore the pain, he stumbles over to his couch and pulls the phone he has sitting on the coffee table into his free hand—he quickly shoots a message to his boss saying he's calling in sick. There's no way he can teach gym class in less than four hours. 

Then, under his coffee table—conveniently placed thanks to the amount of times he's had to stumble in here, losing blood with no one to patch him up—he grabs a first aid kit that's a bit more decked out than any old first aid kit. Placing it on the table, he then takes a few deep breaths to work himself into getting out of the top half of his skin tight suit. He has sharp enough scissors to cut it off… but this is his only suit at the moment and he can't destroy it at the moment. He'll call Alfred later and ask for a simple patch job, or better yet he'll look up tutorials on YouTube on how to effectively sew clothes himself so he doesn't bother the overworked butler. How different can sewing a hole in a suit be from seeing a hole in a shoulder? 

Unzipping his suit is agonizing, but it has to be done. By the time he's worked both of his arms out from their sleeves and left the top half of his suit pooling around his hips, he's breathless and his hands are shaking, red liquid lazily falling down his chest and uncomfortably over his belly. He blinks and the world becomes woozy for a moment; he forces himself to swallow the chunks that wanted to rise from his stomach. 

_ Don't throw up _ is the mantra he chants to himself as he opens the kit and digs through for various tools. When he grabs onto a set of a thin yet sturdy plier-esque tool, he takes just a few more deep breaths and lines up the tool with the weeping gash in his shoulder. 

Best case scenario? He gets the bullet out and sews the wound shut before passing out from the blood-loss and pain, left to wake up in the morning to begin taking care of a budding infection. 

Worst case scenario? He passes out the moment he shoves this tool into his shoulder and hopes someone finds him before he bleeds openly to death. Maybe he should have held off texting his boss… that way if that happened someone might actually notice that he hasn't left his apartment tomorrow morning and someone might actually worry about it. 

Okay. Okay Grayson. It's just a bullet. He's dug bullets out from himself before. 

He can do this. 

He grinds his teeth while he begins to dig into his own flesh. At first he doesn't really feel the difference between the pain of a bullet wound and the pain of digging into said bullet wound, but he sinks the tool another centimeter into the hole and his vision whites out, everything becoming one giant heap of  _ agony _ and he finds himself blinking awake, collapsed against the couch with a bloodied tool in his hand and his wound bleeding with renewed vigor. 

He tastes blood in his mouth, and panic flutters in his chest. He's checked the wound earlier, to the best of his knowledge it's really just a flesh wound, nothing too important was hit, and the bullet didn't even sink that deep thanks to the strength of the Kevlar. His brain struggles to figure out why he could possibly be bleeding internally bad enough for blood to enter his mouth, but then he notices that his tongue feels swollen and filled with a sharp numbness that has him wincing. 

He bit his tongue. 

Nausea rolls over him like a crashing wave, panic overtaking like a storm. He doesn't know why it's so hard this time to patch himself up. He's done it so many times. This pain isn't new; it's familiar.

Somewhat hysterically, he thinks he needs to find something to bite on. Both to make sure he doesn't bite his tongue again and to muffle any screams he can't hold back. He has neighbors, people who live besides and below him and while his apartment is nicer than others in the 'Haven, it's definitely a far cry from soundproof. 

And yet, the thought of moving and finding a cloth to gag himself with and trying  _ again _ to stick a tool into his shoulder makes him want to vomit. 

He can call the hospital, he thinks blearily. People get shot in Blüdhaven all the time. It's sort of like an act of formalizing your official status of a civilian of the worst city in America. You're not a  _ true _ Blüdhaven-er until you've been shot. Bonus points if it was from a corrupt cop! 

So it's not like the hospital would ask too many questions about some random guy who was bleeding from a bullet wound close to four in the morning. He can say he was mugged and they wouldn't even blink. They'd treat the wound and send him off without much thought because it's nothing they haven't heard before. 

He can call for an ambulance. 

Next thing he knows, he's forcing himself forward to grab at his phone. His fingers leave trails of red over the screen as he types in the passcode. He taps on the phone app and goes to the screen where he can type in a new number. 

9-1-

…

His thumb hovers over the last 1. His shoulder pulsing and his stomach rolling. His hands are shaky and his head is practically a cloud and he feels oh so very tired. 

Because he needs a hospital.

But Bruce would kill him. 

Well. Not kill him. But be severely disappointed. He wouldn't listen to any reason Dick gives him when his name ultimately ends up in the papers by some nosy reporter. Sure, he's not exactly famous in Blüdhaven, but somehow reporters from Gotham always catch wind of stuff in Blüdhaven. He can see the headlines already. "Former ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne involved in mugging—" 

He takes a deep, painful breath, his eyelids very hard to keep open right now. It doesn't matter. He doesn't have a Leslie Thompkins or Alfred Pennyworth to patch him up. If he doesn't get someone to help him soon he's going to bleed to death. 

And even though many people accuse him of having a martyr complex, he doesn't want to die.

He's just about to just go through with typing in the last number he needs, when the noise of his window being slid open catches his attention. 

He pauses, going stock still as he slowly turns his woozy head to find a flash of brown hair and eerily  _ almost _ glowing blue-green eyes climbing through his apartment window with the grace of someone who's not new to the business of climbing through windows three stories up from the ground. 

Dick watches as Jason, of all people, hefts himself over the window and silently closes it behind him. And as Jason skips looking through the apparent and instead tilts his head towards Dick's bedroom while he silently creeps to the kitchen… Dick realizes Jason hasn't noticed him. 

Dick watches in complete confusion—and somewhat amusement—as Jason practically tip-toes to the fridge and opens it. 

"Does he have  _ anything _ edible…" Jason mumbles under his breath, poking through the drawers and lifting a carton of cottage cheese to sniff it. Jason gags and puts the carton back in the fridge before closing the door and moving onto the freezer. "Ooh?"

He's found Alfred's cookies. 

And Dick watches, a grin splitting on his face despite his pain and lightheadedness as Jason opens one of the Ziploc bags in the freezer and pulls out a plain old chocolate chip cookie. He stuffs the frozen snack in his mouth and turns to the kitchen table. 

And his eyes widen, having finally noticed Dick sitting on the sofa, bleeding out.

"The heck?" Jason stutters, sounding genuinely shocked as he takes the cookie from his mouth and stares at Dick. 

Dick just smiled at him. "Watch yer… f'kin language, Jay…"

And then he blacks out. 

Or he thinks he does, because one moment he's watching Jason launch himself across the kitchen towards the sofa, and the next Dick is on his back and gasping for breath as his shoulder burns like someone poured flaming gasoline right on it. He jerks, launching his arms up just to hit a sturdy wall of flesh. There's a shout above him and it takes a second for Dick to realize Jason is above him, applying pressure to the bleeding wound and yelling at both a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder and at Dick for trying to move. 

"Just hurry up, he's losing blood," Jason snaps into the phone. He presses harder downwards and Dick cries out, everything spinning and too… too  _ much _ . Too loud. Too painful. Too unfocused. 

Dick forces himself to focus on the pain in his shoulder and not on the tempting calls of unconsciousness. He can't just… pass out on Jason. He needs to stay awake. He needs to keep his little brother company. 

"Wh- what…" Dick tries, but his tongue feels wrong in his mouth and his brain feels disconnected from anything. 

Jason, thankfully, seems to know exactly what Dick wants to ask. "Here's your options," he says, removing his ear from his shoulder and letting the phone fall, it's call disconnected, "I can dig the bullet out of your shoulder and stitch it and hope you stay alive long enough for Tim to get here with some blood bags, or I can finish that call you were trying to make."

The hospital. Dick really must be in bad shape if Jason is suggesting the hospital. 

But he's going to be okay. Jason is here and Tim will be here soon. If he's speeding and taking the fastest roads, he should be here within the next half hour. 

With his mind made up, Dick forces a stiff smile. "N'hospitals," he slurs and Jason frowns. 

"It's going to hurt," Jason says back, his arms shaking with the pressure he's putting on Dick's shoulder. It hurts so badly, but Dick is  _ sure _ he's in good hands. "Your first aid is lacking any kind of painkillers that won't thin your blood."

"Th's'fine…"

"It'll scar," Jason replies like that was some sort of valid argument, and Dick releases a small chuckle. Of course it'll scar. It'll scar worse than if the hospital or even if Alfred did it. It'll be puckered and ugly. But he'll be alive and he won't risk their identities by going to the hospital. 

"S'not so bad," Dick mumbles and Jason's lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile. Jason is the last person Dick will ever complain to about scars. Jason is practically made of more scar tissue than anything else at this point. It doesn't make Dick think any less of him, even if the sight of the giant Y down his chest makes him queasy. 

"Okay," Jason says, shifting on his knees slightly, and Dick realizes he's laying on the couch and Jason is having to twist at an awkward angle to get the maximum amount of pressure. "Need something to bite?"

Dick can't find the words, and he can't think of anything that would be close by for Dick to bite, but he nods anyway. He can taste the blood lingering in his mouth, and while he's sure his tongue isn't  _ that _ injured, he doesn't want to accidentally bite it off the second time something digs into his shoulder to pull out the bullet. 

With a sharp nod, Jason let's go of the wound for a moment, just to come back a couple seconds later with Dick's striped hand-cloth he usually has hanging on the handle of the oven. 

With a bit of painful shifting, Dick soon finds himself with the cloth in his mouth and his hands wadded into the sleeves of his Nightwing suit hanging loosely around his hips, breathing deeply through his nose while Jason leans in with the tool that will hurt like hell.

And it does. Dick's pretty sure he screams a bit, and all his thoughts are about not letting go of the sleeves of his suit so he won't accidentally knock Jason off of him while he digs gently yet  _ agonizingly _ into his shoulder. 

Though, after a few moments that feel like hours, he loses the battle with consciousness, and falls unwillingly into numbness and darkness. 

-•°•°•°•-

When Dick wakes again, everything is fuzzy. The blanket over his bare chest, the pillow placed beneath his neck, the tickle of Jason's hair against his arm while he sits on the ground and leans against the sofa, playing some early morning cartoon on the TV. The arm Jason is leaning against is the only thing not under the blanket; it's placed gently over it to allow a tube leading from a red bag hanging from a makeshift contraption above the sofa to enter the crook of his elbow. 

He doesn't feel much anything besides the fuzziness. He must have been given the good stuff. 

There's shuffling behind the sofa where the kitchen is. Dick wonders if that's Tim. Though he's not dumb enough to try and move to see. 

So instead, Dick let's his eyes slowly fall closed again, groggily moving his exposed arm to Jason's head, brushing his fingers through the soft hair. 

Jason tensed and jolts, turning around with sharp eyes. 

Half awake, Dick smiles. "Hey," he whispers. 

Jason glares. "Next time you get shot, try to remember that Tim never sleeps."

It's said jokingly, but also seriously. Of course Tim would be up at four in the morning. He was probably working on the next big presentation he needs for his job as CEO. How did he not think of that?

There's a small laugh from the kitchen and Dick is delighted to watch Tim walk into the living room with a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. "I'm not sure if I should be offended or not. Also, B and the others are all on their way. You're in trouble."

Dick winces. Great. Soon his apartment will be crowded with over worried vigilante's where only Cass and Duke are the ones that are not emotionally constipated about it. Bruce and Damian are going to be a nightmare. 

"You should be offended," Jason says, quickly disregarding the last part of Tim's statement. "If you don't sleep and you keep drinking coffee like that you'll stay short and will never join the  _ Taller-Than-Dick _ club."

"Well," Dick mumbles, "now  _ I'm _ offended."

"You should be too," Tim snarks. 

"M'not… that short…" Dick yawns, his shoulder twinging ever so slightly. He's so tired. The blood-loss and the drugs can do that to a guy. 

"Yeah, save it for when Cass ends up being the only one shorter than you," Jason scoffs. 

Dick shakes his head. "Noooo, Dami 'n Tim will always be baby br'thers…"

He's not sure how much of that sentence he's actually gotten out. His eyes are barely open now. 

The last thing he hears before he falls back into a peaceful sleep is Tim laughing and Jason snorting in amusement. Dick knows whatever they gave him for the pain will eventually wear off, and he might be stuffed back into the manor so Alfred can watch over the bullet wound himself while under strict commands of bed rest… but right now, he feels safe. Warm. As fuzzy as the blanket on his body and the hair at the back of Jason's head. 

He falls asleep with a content sigh, looking forward to waking up again and having his entire family here to worry about him.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is my bingo card!](https://zhe-angst-diary.tumblr.com/post/624382266235355136/rules-if-you-want-to-send-a-request-i-dont-write)
> 
> Feel free to send an ask as an request! I want to update a short chapter every Sunday from here on out. 
> 
> If you don't want to send an ask, you can also leave a comment!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Any requests will be much appreciated, along with any comments <3


End file.
